So It Isn't Platonic
by ShadowConnors
Summary: John Watson is full of deep depression and pain. The loss of his companion has made him realize some important things. This epiphany weighs heavily on John's conscience as he tries to forget the detective.


Sniffling, John read his handwritten letter over once more. His hands shook with the intensity of his tears and pain. The cold wind whipped at his cheeks, tinting them in a bright crimson hue.

_Dear Sherlock,_

_The beginning of our time together was a very iffy time for me. I was unsure of you when we first met, but as you know so well, I thought your work was amazing. Your deductions are brilliant and beautifully done. I didn't know that watching you do the job you enjoy from my spot by your side would do such terribly wonderful things to me._

_I knew after a month and a half that you and I were definitely meant to share the flat. There's nowhere I would have rather been, Sherlock. It's just too hard to find someone that is as good a flat mate as you are. I'm not saying I enjoyed your experiments on our kitchen table, or the constant lack of milk, or the bag of human thumbs you'd left in the fridge. I'm just saying I enjoyed the fact that you wanted me to live with you._

_Even though Lestrade and his team thought so lowly of you, and even though I was advised so rudely that I should stay away from you, I stayed by your side. The idea of living with a psychopath scared me at first. Who knew whether or not you would kill me in my sleep and turn me into an experiment? Who knew whether the skull on our mantle truthfully belonged to your former flat mate? I didn't, but there was something about you that made me want to stay._

_As the months slowly passed and case after case was solved, I began to feel such a strange thing when I was around you, Sherlock. Your mere presence made butterflies dance through my stomach. I felt nothing but happiness and wonder around you. I didn't know it just then, what was happening to me._

_I know it now, Sherlock. I know just what it was that happened to me in those months of assisting you on cases and being there by your side. I know that out of your many sleepless nights and countless boxes of nicotine patches, I gained something. I realize that after every cup of tea, every taxi ride, every unexpected visit to Buckingham Palace under Mycroft's order, I was still feeling the same thing. I didn't know what it was until the moment I saw you standing on that rooftop._

_The fear I saw in your eyes hit me hard in the gut. I felt such a pain that I'd never felt before, Sherlock. In fact, I wanted to cry. But a soldier doesn't cry. We're meant to be strong, but in that moment I was nothing but a mess. You told me to face the fact that you were truthfully a fake, and that Moriarty hadn't ever existed. But I couldn't give up on you, Sherlock, and I still haven't._

_The moment you told me that, I knew deep within my heart that I loved you. And, to be quite honest, I still do love you. You were the reason I got out of bed each morning. When I had a bad day, you gave me such a wonderful feeling and helped me hold onto it. Sherlock Holmes, I would be nothing without you._

_But you're gone now. The bloodied pavement in front of St. Bart's has been cleaned. The skull still sits on the mantle, but with less purpose. Your experiments have been cleaned from the kitchen. The science shelf in the refrigerator has been emptied. Your violin goes unused. My heart hardly beats. Nothing is the same without you, Sherlock. And that's why I'm joining you in death. There's room for one more name on that gravestone, Sherlock. I love you._

John read the last few sentences aloud, staring down at the grey stone engraved with Sherlock's name. The grass surrounding it grew tall and green, and the flowers that John had brought lay neatly across the sharp blades. Tears filled the ex-army doctor's once sparkling eyes. He dropped to his knees, feeling the damp grass through the fabric of his jeans. He cried into his hands and his chest heaved as he attempted to catch his breath. But something changed. The worn out young man felt a hand on his shoulder.

He calmed his wails momentarily, enough to quiet them. A warm embrace enveloped him, and it felt all too familiar. The smell of a specific cologne overwhelmed John, and he began to cry again.

"Sherlock… Please come back to me… I need you…" he mumbled between loud sobs.

The comforting voice of the stranger whispered in John's ear. "I'm right here, John. I'm right here."


End file.
